


An Eluvian Darkly: The Thing

by wargoddess



Series: An Eluvian Darkly [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, M/M, Mage!Carver, PWP, Rough Sex, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Cullen's duty to protect Carver, even from Cullen himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Eluvian Darkly: The Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [An Eluvian Darkly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135282) by [wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess). 



> Probably helpful to read the parent story first! But if you can't be arsed, this is an AU in which Carver was born a mage, Cullen is his sworn Templar, and they now run the Ferelden Circle Tower together.

     It isn't something he's conscious of suppressing, not for a long while. He has no words for the thing, no real awareness that it _is_ a thing, and because of that he never thinks about it. It is simply a part of him, like faith, like duty, like Carver, like his sword.

     If he is honest with himself, later when he understands more, he can admit that it has always been in him to some degree. When he was a recruit, and the other recruits bent the knee because even then he was the best of them even if he was too humble to admit it, he remembers stroking the hair on their bobbing heads and wanting to grip it, hold them still, make them take more of him. With the demon -- no. Nothing of that was true pleasure, only its illusion. With Meredith, though, when he knelt at her feet and offered her the adoration of his tongue, he remembers that it aroused him to obey her commands as perfectly in the bedchamber as in the courtyard. He remembers wishing he could yield to her _more_ , somehow, wanting... wanting... A hand on his throat. A sword-tip at his genitals. He remembers dreaming of these things, and waking up afire with her name on his lips, but never having the courage to tell her what he craved.

     And he has always considered this craving natural, usual, if troubling. The reason lust is considered a sinful thing, perhaps. Only gradually does he come to understand: most people do not _want_ in so absolute a way. Their needs are duller-edged things than his.

     It is with Carver, of course, that it begins to come out. Carver, who obeys so readily when Cullen commands him during their lovemaking; Carver, who moans as fulsomely when Cullen grips his hair as when Cullen kisses him; Carver, who _likes_ it when Cullen leaves him sore after an excess of passion, or when they find finger-shaped bruises on his hips in the bath later. Cullen always regrets that he has marked his mage. But in the moment -- because Cullen _does_ pause, _does_ check -- in the moment, Carver cries _Don't stop_ , and so Cullen braces himself and thinks in a white-hot snarl, _I shall not_.

     But then, Carver is not the usual sort of man himself. And in the quieter evenings when Cullen watches him and thinks of doing things to him, things that are more than gripped hair or soft orders issued during lovemaking, things that appall Cullen when the thought has passed and make him ache with unshed tension during their contemplation... often, he sees Carver glance at him. The mage is thoughtful, calm. And sometimes, Cullen thinks, Carver sees what is in him. Carver knows, and is not frightened or repelled.

     What does that mean? Cullen doesn't know. But it is irrelevant. It's Cullen's duty to keep Carver safe -- even from Cullen himself.

     But it's Carver who comes home to their shared room one day, with a package bearing couriers' marks from Orlais tucked under one arm. He comes over to Cullen's chair, and crouches before him with an expression that is... Cullen isn't sure. "Hey."

     Cullen turns from his desk at once. "Are you well?"

     Carver smiles. "You always ask that. You're so bloody considerate, Cull."

     Cullen says nothing, and tenses a little, because Carver has not answered the question.

     Carver shakes his head. "And you're off again. I'm _fine_ , for the Maker's sake. Relax."

     So Cullen relaxes. But it stings, the implicit criticism. "It is my duty to know your well-being."

     "I know. I like that you look out for me. Just wish you didn't think the worst, so often." Carver shrugs, then sobers. "But I guess... you've seen so many awful things. And -- " He falls silent, but it is a Meredith-shaped silence. Carver knows that Cullen's last lover died at his hands -- a necessary mercy for which he still blames himself. Carver never asks about her. But there is a delicate acknowledgement of that shape, that loss, when Carver says, " _I'm safe_ , though. Yeah? No demons, nobody's bothering me, I'm eating all right, don't even have the sniffles. I'm happy. You don't have to be afraid for me." Carver sets the package down in his lap and reaches up to cup the back of Cullen's head. "We look out for _each other_. Right?"

     And Cullen sighs, and relaxes more, and closes his eyes to lean into Carver's hand. Carver is right, again. Carver is usually right about these things. It is fear that Cullen feels -- always, endlessly, _fear_. That everything he has done to reform the Templar Order is wrong. That he will fail, and watch the world burn again, and this time be able to do nothing about it. That he is weak, and that Carver will suffer for it as Meredith did.

     Carver draws a thumb around the edge of Cullen's beard. "There's something we have to talk about, though." Cullen opens his eyes, instantly worrying -- then stopping himself, mindful of Carver's scold. Instead, he waits. Carver nods once, approvingly. "We're going to have to talk to everyone," Carver says. "The mages are asking. I'll wager the Templars are wondering, too. They're starting to partner off, and some of the sets will just be friends, of course, but..." He shrugs. "The ones who want more of each other will need rules. It's not safe, otherwise."

     Cullen frowns, not understanding at first because Carver is being more oblique than usual. Then, suddenly, he remembers. _Sexual relations between Templar and partnered mage may be initiated only by the mage, and only with the Templar's agreement.  Coercion on the part of either party is grounds for dissolution of the partnership._ This is part of the Code of the Circle, the rules that govern the new partnerships between Templars and mages. The past year has been a series of tentative advances and retreats: older Templars shedding ingrained mistrust, older mages trying to forgive past wrongs, young recruits and apprentices trying to find a way forward without the guidance of their elders. Everyone looks to Cullen and Carver to understand how things should be done now, because it's obvious that the two of them have worked out the kinks.

     But they have not told the story of _how_ those kinks got worked out -- not beyond Viveka and Feynriel, who lived it, and not in the intimate details. So how can they know if a mage or Templar has been coerced by a partner, if they do not invite discussion? How can they teach others to express desire safely, between lovers who have the power to easily kill one another, if they do not share their secrets? This is what Carver is saying, and again -- he is right.

     "I will do my best," Cullen says, and means it. But -- He looks away, and is proud that he does not blush. "I have never... These matters. They are things I've never..."

     "You don't know how to talk about it. I figured, yeah." Carver smooths his hands up Cullen's thighs, and this jostles the package he's set in Cullen's lap. "Want to show you something."

     So Cullen watches as Carver unwraps the paper, and opens the envelope inside, and takes out... cylinders? Made of burgundy-dyed leather, and tied together via black satin laces. Two smaller, tied together, and two larger.

     He looks up at Carver, uncomprehending. Carver smiles, so knowing. "We never talk about what we do," he says. "If we can't talk about it with each other, how are we going to talk to anyone else?"

     "What we do?" But. Even though Carver is being oblique out of respect for Cullen's... prudishness, maybe, Cullen knows what he means. The _thing_. That element of their relationship that Cullen has no words for. It has always been there, though Cullen thinks of it as simply part of his duty. It was there when he began to see that Carver wanted him, needed more than just protection from him but respected him too much to ask for it. It was there when Carver first begged Cullen to sleep with him, just to keep off the nightmares, and it took shape in the way they slept together -- Cullen dictating their positions, when they laid down and when they rose, sometimes whether Carver was permitted to wear clothing. He likes having Carver under him. Carver, thankfully, never seems to mind Cullen's demands and insistence.

     And the _thing_ is there now, in all their intimate moments. Cullen decides when they will make love. This is because Carver is a hedonist who would have Cullen every night if he could, and Cullen believes in the old adage of _all things in moderation_. Likewise he decides _how_ they will make love, based on what he deems Carver to need: licks and suckling when Carver is tired or unhappy; a thoroughly violent rutting when Carver needs tiring-out so that the demons won't trouble him in his sleep; leisurely caresses and slow savoring when all is well and Carver's just hungry for Cullen. Very occasionally Cullen invites Carver to take him, and Carver will happily do so, but it is patently obvious that the mage prefers to have Cullen take control. It is equally obvious that Cullen prefers it this way, too.

     He has never once asked Carver how he feels about this. But everything is _for_ Carver. That is duty. A Templar must keep his mage's needs foremost in his mind at all times, or become corrupt.

     Carver ducks his eyes. "You're always thinking about me," he says, and Cullen feels a moment's warmth at this proof of how well they know each other. "I love that you do. But -- Cull, that's not how it's supposed to go. All one way, I mean. We're supposed to take care of each other, yeah?"

     Cullen strokes his hair, lifts his chin. "It pleases me to ease you."

     "Yeah, well." Carver picks up the cylinder-contraptions -- and then he slips his wrists into them. As Cullen stares, he lifts his wrists and tugs the laces firmly closed with his teeth. It is -- oh. _Oh_.

     Then Carver looks up at Cullen, blushing a little himself, but waiting. _Offering_.

     And inwardly, Cullen trembles.

     Carver licks his lips, gaze unblinking as he watches Cullen's face. "I see you holding back, Cull," he says softly, and there is a husky note to his voice that is -- that is -- does he _want_ , too? No, that cannot be. But Carver continues: "I see you hold back all the time. And I want... Sometimes I want to, uh, _ease_ you, too. Yeah?"

     Cullen swallows, and then wishes he hadn't, because Carver has seen his reaction now.

     Carver smiles, then stands up. He can't pull his shirt off now that the cuffs are on, so he just unlaces it and shrugs it off his shoulders. He _can_ still unlace his trousers, and toe off his boots, so soon he stands before Cullen clad only in loose linen that frames rather than covers his nudity. He's only half hard, though this is changing as Cullen watches -- as Carver _sees_ Cullen watching, and guesses, correctly, that Cullen is just as powerfully aroused.

     "You like to be in control," Carver says. He shifts his wrists a little, but the cuffs are secure; he will be unable to free himself easily. "You need to remind yourself that I'm yours. But you're always so _considerate_ , Cull. Always the bloody gentleman." He steps closer, and his loose fingers brush Cullen's chin. Cullen wants to bite them. He grips the armrests of his chair, hard, to restrain the urge. "Don't you ever want to, well, do what you want with me? Do what makes _you_ happy?"

     Cullen licks his lips.

     Carver's eyes flick down. In Cullen's lap sits the remains of the package, and the other set of cuffs -- which Cullen now realizes are meant for Carver's ankles. There's a long lead attached to them, with a latch and buckle. Cullen suffers a sudden vision: Carver forced to inch along at Cullen's heel, tugged by the lead in Cullen's hand. Carver's wrists and ankles bound together, the lead linking them and shortened viciously so that his body is curled and helpless and open for Cullen's fingers or tongue or cock.

     Oh, Maker save them both.

     Carver leans down, and Cullen does not mistake the quicker pace of his breathing, or the way he nuzzles Cullen's ear. " _I_ want you to, Cull. I want all of you." He moves closer, slides a knee into the chair alongside Cullen's hip, settles into Cullen's lap with a look on his face that is -- sweet Andraste. The package paper crinkles between them. The ankle-cuffs nudge up against Carver's cock, which isn't just half-ready anymore. "I want to be everything you need."

     Almost against his will, Cullen rests hands on Carver's hips, thumbs tracing the line of the mage's obliques. Everything in him has gone still. He cannot meet Carver's eyes. "I... don't want to _hurt_ you, Carver."

     Carver's hands cup his chin, coax his face up. Cullen expects him to flinch away from whatever is showing on Cullen's face. (He feels like a demon inside, all conscienceless selfishness and imminent threat. Perhaps Carver will declare him corrupt and strike him down.) Carver's eyes do widen -- in surprise, perhaps. But also...

     "Then don't hurt me, if you don't want to." Carver licks his lips, and suddenly it is his turn to avoid Cullen's eyes. "But if you do... Maybe I want you to, Cull. Maybe I'll like it."

     Cullen's hands tighten. What he sees in Carver is _eagerness_. Yes. Eagerness, and delight, and want.

     Cullen's breath quickens. He is still, too still, ready to crack. "If I go too far, Carver -- "

     "I'll tell you."

     "If I ask too much -- "

     Carver loops his arms 'round Cullen's neck. "I'll stop you."

     It is almost a benediction. Not quite. But it is enough.

     He picks up the ankle-cuffs and stands, holding Carver against him. Five quick steps to deposit Carver on the bed, and then Cullen is lacing the cuffs into place with trembling fingers. When that is done he steps back to undress, watching Carver and thinking of all he means to do and shuddering with the heat of his own thoughts and -- Maker. Oh, Maker, please do not let him sin.

     Carver is watching him, hungry, though he stays where Cullen has put him. "Pleasure yourself," Cullen commands, shrugging off his shirt. And Carver does so, rolling onto his back and taking himself between his bound hands, so deliciously obedient that Cullen is achingly hard long before he gets his trousers off. It's a magnificent sight: the mage, whose soul channels the power of the Fade and whose body is strong and honed-enough to wield a greatsword with ease, writhing and shameless at Cullen's word. It's interesting, Cullen notes with distant fascination, that Carver barely touches his cock.  Cullen has never watched him masturbate before.  He sees that Carver massages the tip with just the pads of his fingers, but his other hand has wandered below, rolling his balls up and down the length of his root. Valuable intelligence.

     Carver moans then, tossing his head and too-obviously rising toward the brink, and something must be done about that. Cullen reaches over and hooks a finger into the wrist-cuffs, yanking Carver's hands away and ignoring his cry of protest. Then he rolls Carver over and drags him around by his bound feet until he's lying facedown with his legs hanging off the mattress and his arse presented to the candlelight.

     Yes. Cullen takes a step back, then back again. Back to the chair, where he sits and crosses his legs. He wishes he had a glass of wine, to savor with this view.

     "Cull?" Carver starts to push up, to turn to him.

     "Be silent," Cullen snaps, and Carver settles at once. He is so good at following orders, Cullen's beautiful mage. Cullen licks his lips.

     "I would have you every hour," he confesses, into the silent room. "Across the table while I have dinner, in the library while the apprentices practice around us, in the dust of the sparring yard after I defeat you. I would take you before everyone, over and over, letting them hear your cries and ogle your beauty so that all might know what a prize I have claimed." He envisions it and shudders, feeling lightheaded; his hand shakes as he puts it down to stroke himself. "There are -- there are -- " He flushes, closes his eyes for a moment in shame, but there is a thrill here, too. "There are times when I pray, and dream of laying _you_ upon the altar in sacrifice, so that Blessed Andraste may taste you as I do."

     Carver shifts a little, saying nothing, but Cullen knows that movement. Abruptly he can't just watch anymore; shameful lack of discipline on his part, but Carver is _there_ and _his_ and he can't just leave it at that.

     So Cullen goes to stand behind Carver, sliding a hand under him to cup his erection. Carver makes a soft pleading sound and thrusts against his hand, but Cullen swats him on the arse and he stills at once. (The mark of his hand, reddening on Carver's smooth skin and around his mabari tattoo, is lovely. Cullen thinks of adding more, of using his belt, of leaving welts and then fucking Carver while the mage twitches amid the contrast of pain and pleasure, and stills this impulse within himself. Later. When he feels strong enough to do it properly, and stop before he has gone too far.)

     He pulls Carver a bit more off the bed, lifts his hips a bit, and gets the oil from the nearby nightstand. He annoints his hand and then crouches so that he may more easily stroke the mage, using a steady "milking" twist that he knows Carver loves, focusing this time on that obviously-sensitive area about the tip. As Cullen does this he lays a kiss at the root of Carver's cock, between balls and pucker, bared by Carver's position. Carver groans again and immediately Cullen bites him, sharply, just below the mabari on his left arse-cheek; another lovely red mark. It quiets the mage at once. Satisfied, Cullen resumes his kisses, moving up and down the cleft and keeping the touch of his lips gentle, occasional, to offset the relentless pump of his hand.

     But he watches, of course. (Mages must always be watched.) And when Carver's breath grows ragged and his body grows taut in a familiar way, Cullen lets him go and crouches to detach the lead from his ankle-cuffs.

     "Cullen, for fuck's sake!" Carver goes into full revolt, bucking and trying to wriggle against the edge of the bed in desperation. He can't do much with his hands bound; the mattress is a less-than-satisfying thing to thrust against. But he twists and Cullen sees that he is trying to get his bound hands down between his legs. That is simply unacceptable.

     The lead is in his hand. It is the work of a moment for Cullen to loop this around Carver's neck, and then to haul him off the bed and onto the floor. Carver falls to his knees, gagging; Cullen eases his grip at once, pausing until the mage catches his breath. (Their eyes meet. Carver nods, once. Cullen relaxes.) Then he tugs, putting pressure only on the back of Carver's neck, so that Carver has no choice but to walk on his knees where Cullen directs. Across the bedroom floor, flagstone to plush rug, and Cullen's chair. Cullen sits, draping one leg over the chair's arm, and uses the lead to pull Carver into position before him.

     Carver's gaze is full of fear and excitement and craving. He has fixed his eyes on Cullen's cock and indeed, that's where Cullen wants him. But the mage's rebellion must be addressed. When Carver leans forward, his mouth opening, Cullen slaps him and then grips his chin to force his gaze up.

     "You will _ask_ ," Cullen says. "Beg, and I may permit it."

     "Please." Carver's voice breaks, and his eyes are watering above his reddened cheek. (But he does not beg to _stop_.) "Please, Cull. I -- I want to taste you, I want to feel you on my tongue, please, you know I -- Maker, I can't think, I just bloody _want_ \-- "

     It is exquisite, such a thrill of power, and Cullen licks his lips. Then he pulls away the lead and inclines his head, and Carver falls upon him greedily. Cullen watches this for awhile, reveling in the sounds of Carver half-swallowing him, then knots his fingers in Carver's hair in warning. A reminder for himself as well: _give him time_. Yes. He wants what he wants, but he also wants this to be pleasure for them both. He is not a selfish man.

     So when Carver braces himself and is ready, Cullen holds his head in place with both hands and fucks his mouth. It is sweet and it is deep and he does not hold back at all, save when Carver gags once. Cullen pulls back to let him recover, he is panting and half blind with want but he _stops_ , and then when Carver looks up at him he resumes, relentlessly. He lets his eyes drift shut, lets his mind relax, lets his awareness constrict until there is nothing but Carver's wet mouth, nothing but the hard pull of rising excitement in his groin, nothing but the knowledge that Carver is _his_ for the taking, for the using, for keeping safe.

     Abruptly he's had enough of Carver's mouth. He palms some oil and rolls out of the chair and throws Carver to the floor. He's making a ragged sound, more than panting. Carver tries to push himself up and Cullen thinks _no_ and falls upon him, pinning his head to the floor with one hand and covering Carver's body with his own. "Raise your hips," he says, and Carver does so; he's breathing just as hard as Cullen. Cullen's inside him in a moment, sinking deep, but then he stops and fumbles for the lead again. It's made of butter-soft, rolled leather; whoever made it clearly anticipated its use for multiple purposes. Cullen swallows hard, then gives in to the urge. He wraps the lead 'round Carver's genitals, then grips it tight.

     "Oh, Maker," Carver says, and so fevered is Cullen that he lets this slide without chastisement.

     "You may not climax," he says. "Not until I say." He positions himself with one hand holding the lead under Carver, while the other he uses to hold Carver down.

     And then --

     He loses track of things for a little while. Not completely. Some part of him never forgets that it is Carver beneath him, Carver making increasingly desperate sounds and writhing to meet his thrusts and finally just begging, just moaning _Cullen, Maker, please, you're sodding killing me, I can't take it, don't bloody stop_ , Carver who has given himself to Cullen, Carver of whom no other is worthy. He is vaguely aware of the pressure of Carver's flesh against his teeth and tongue. Barely aware of the hardness of Carver's head beneath his hand, held to the floor. He will remember, sometime later, breathing hotly in Carver's ear, _Tell me you are mine_ , and Carver wailing _Yes yes fucking yes forever, yours for bloody always, I think I'm going to die_.

     He remembers thinking, perhaps saying, _This much death, and no more, you may have_. Then loosening the lead.

     It's the same thing that has always been between them, really. Just... more.

     When he remembers himself, he is sprawled atop Carver and both of them are gasping for breath. The lead is halfway across the room. He has no idea how it got there. His knees sting -- carpet burn -- and he is dripping with sweat, and his throat is raw. He must have shouted, but he does not remember doing so.

     These things are irrelevant. Immediately he moves off Carver and rolls the mage over, unlacing his wrists and yanking off the cuffs, then touching him gently all over to be certain that he is whole. Carver's knees are scraped too, and there's a livid bruise on one hip, a red line across his throat, and -- Cullen is appalled -- tear-streaks on his face. Bite-marks all across his neck and shoulders; an especially red one on his jaw. His wrists seem well enough, but -- "Carver," Cullen says, aching and afraid. He touches Carver's face, thumbs the tears away.

     "Maker's Breath," Carver says, his eyes shut as he catches his breath. "Fucking _Void_ , Cull." And then -- oh, everything that has knotted up inside Cullen eases -- Carver flashes an openmouthed, lopsided grin. "Sodding _yeah_."

     "I did not mean," Cullen begins, but Carver laughs deliriously.

     "None of that." He loops an arm around Cullen's neck, pulls him down, holds him close. "Just lie here with me awhile."

     It is perverse. Cullen wants to be ashamed. And yet. This _thing_ has left Carver breathless and replete, and Cullen cannot deny that he feels the same. There is a sort of comfort to it, is there not? A degree of relaxation he has not felt in a long while. Is that so terrible a thing?

     After a time, he feels Carver's fingers thread into his hair, massaging, and a moment later there is the prickle of magic along Cullen's lyrium-sensitized nerves. Carver is healing Cullen's knees. "No," Cullen says. "You first."

     "Nope. Gonna keep mine. Maker knows how long it'll be before I talk you into this again."

     Cullen lifts his head, frowning. "I have _hurt_ you."

     "I know." Does Carver look _smug_? Yes, he does. Smug and relaxed, as he stretches -- wincing visibly -- and exhales.

     _"Carver."_

     Carver sighs in annoyance, but the annoyance is mitigated by satisfaction. "Maker's Cock. Fine." The prickle resumes, magic shimmering over Carver's skin, and Cullen is relieved to see the bruises and bites and scrapes fade. All but one, a bite which is high on Carver's pectoral, just below his collarbone. Cullen does not remember inflicting it. He opens his mouth and Carver scowls, a familiar stubborn look on his face. "No. It's out of sight, no one will know what we got up to. This one's mine to keep as a souvenir, long as it lasts."

     " _Whether anyone sees_ it isn't my concern, Carver."

     To his surprise, the mage softens, lifting a hand to cup his face. "I know. But it doesn't really hurt, so never mind it.  And listen." He pulls Cullen's head down, presses their foreheads togther. "This is what we have to teach everyone else."

     How to trust, despite fear. How to keep caring foremost, even during correction. How to be responsibly hedonistic. How to love someone powerful, and not lose oneself in it. There are lessons, rules, that he thinks he knows how to teach, now. Questions lovers must ask, permissions that must be made explicit, boundaries that should be established. Practice, perhaps, with lesser lusts, before the unleashing of the greater. Care that must be taken, before and after.

     Cullen strokes a thumb over Carver's lips. "Yes."

     But the new lessons are for the morrow. In the now, Cullen gets up and leads Carver to bed, because that is his duty: to care for his mage, and comfort him, and keep him safe. And to feel safe in turn, because now Cullen knows what he himself is capable of. He knows how much to trust Carver, and how much to trust himself.

     They curl together beneath the blankets. "Love is the least of what lies between us," Cullen says.

     Carver smiles and nestles back against him. "'Course. But that's the nicest thing, yeah?"

     Yes. A very good... thing.

     Cullen tightens his arms to keep his mage close, to feel safe. Then, finally, fully, he lets himself relax.

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to make the "Dom/Sub undertones" of "An Eluvian Darkly" overt, for smutty purposes. I have to note that I've never done any sort of BDSMplay in real life, though with the right person I'd probably like to give it a whirl. So apologies in advance if I've gotten anything wrong. Just needed to scratch a mental itch, but I tried to do it right.


End file.
